Fiery Repercussions
by Duchess Daymaun
Summary: 7 years ago, Relena had given herself wholly to Trowa moments before a flames ripped the Barton ranch apart. Years later, he was back, a cold, embittered stranger. But Relena knew that somewhere in there lurked the man she once loved. RxT
1. Prologue

**Warning:** **Some parts are a bit lemony but not too much. Just a warning.**

Disclaimer: I don't own GW…pooh. Rats…maybe someday.

Fiery Repercussions (Prologue) 

            "I love you," Relena Dorlian whispered. Lying on the summer-dry grass, staring into eyes as green as emeralds, she smiled, blushing at the boldness of her words. At nineteen she was certain she was in love. And no one, not her overprotective father, nor her suspicious brother, nor even Trowa Barton himself, could convince her otherwise.

            Trowa's thumbs traced the arch of her cheeks. Passion smoldered in his eyes. "You're sure?"

            "Absolutely," Her lips quivered anxiously. "So don't try to tell me that I'm too young or too naïve or too…whatever, to know what I'm talking about."

            "Am I arguing?" He kissed her softly again, his lips warm and filled with promise as they brushed tenderly over hers. Strong fingers tangled in her long, strawberry-blond hair. Winding her arms around his neck, she felt the weight of his chest crush her breasts, could see blue sky through the shifting pine needles of the branches overhead. The summer sun hung low over lazy mountains, and insects hummed in the whisper-soft breeze that ruffled Trowa's chocolate brown hair. Nearby, the horses, a buckskin gelding and a sorrel mare, were tethered together. The animals stood nose to rump, nickering softly and switching their tails at the ever-[resent flies.

            The afternoon was perfect.

            "I love you, too, Relena," Trowa vowed, moving gently above her.

            Through her jeans Relena could feel the heat of his body, the solid warmth of his legs entwined with hers.

            Pressing eager lips against her neck, he groaned – a deep, primal sound that caused her heart to trip. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and lungs as he said, "I want to make you mine."

            She believed him. With all of her heart, she knew he wanted to marry her, intended to spend the rest of his life with her. Her heart began to clamor, her pulse jumping wildly as he circled the hollow of her throat with his tongue. His breath was as warm as the summer wind, the honesty in his eyes clear as a mountain lake.

            "I trust you," she whispered.

            She felt the buttons slide through the buttonholes in her blouse. The gauzy fabric parted, and sunlight warmed her bare skin. She smiled to herself, throwing caution to the wind. Today she would prove just how much she loved Trowa, just how wrong her father was about him.

            Sunlight danced through the trees, dappling their naked bodies as they gazed upon each other in silent rapture. She wasn't embarrassed and met his hungry gaze with her own. He swallowed.

            She licked her lips. "I'll love you for the rest of my life," she said softly. Touching his bare chest, watching the muscles of his shoulders ripple and strain, she smiled up at him.

            Her fingers traced a feather-line against his rips, and he groaned. "Relena, don't tease me,"

            "Never," she vowed, devouring him with her eyes.

            At twenty-three, Trowa had matured into a handsome man. Long and lean, with tanned skin, flashing emerald eyes and hair as brown as chocolate, he was rugged and charming, His features were no longer boyish, but chiseled into manhood. He was everything she had ever wanted, and unless she convinced him otherwise, he was leaving.

            "Oh, Relena," he whispered hoarsely, smoothing her hair from her face, his palms caressing her cheeks. "I want to make you happy."

            "Do I look so miserable?" she asked, chuckling deep in her throat.

            He grinned crookedly. "You're gorgeous."

            "So, Mr. Barton, are you."

            "I never want to hurt you," he said, growing serious again.

            "You won't," Relena looked up at him. "Love me," She whispered.

            The wind shifted silently, moving across the rugged ridge on which they lay, bending the dry grass and catching in Relena's hair.

            "Don't ever leave me," she begged, her mind still spinning in a kaleidoscope of colors as she clung to him and tried to still her racing heartbeat. She felt the dew of sweat on his arms, smelled the scent of lovemaking on his skin, saw smoky clouds swirl in a sky tinged with pink.

            "I have to go to L.A."

            His words were a cold dose of reality. "You don't _have_ to," Relena protested.

            "Yes, I do, Relena. I've got a job there in two weeks." Evidently seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he kissed the tip of her nose. "But you could come with me."

            She swallowed back the urge to cry and looked away from him to the hazy heavens. "My dad…"

            "Doesn't need you. I do. Come with me."

            "What would I do in Los Angeles?" she asked, shifting her gaze back to his. "I train horses. I don't belong in the city. And neither do you." Blinking rapidly, she told herself not to cry, no this afternoon, not after loving him so completely. Clouds drifted overhead and the smell of smoke wafted through the trees. 

            "I'm an engineer, Relena. I want to build bridges and skyscrapers and –," His nostrils flared and every muscle in his body flexed.

            "And what?"

            "Smoke!" he whispered, his gaze daring through the surrounding hills, to the valley floor far below. "Oh, God –,"

            "What?" she asked, reading the terror in his eyes, "Trowa?" Her throat suddenly dry, she, too, smelled the biting odor of burning wood. _Fire!_

            Scrambling into his jeans, Trowa stared down the hillside, his face a mask of horror. "Oh, God, no!" 

            Relena followed his gaze, only to see steel-gray smoke billowing from the stables of the Barton ranch. She felt the blood rush from her face as she scrabbled on the dry ground for her jeans and blouse and struggled into her clothes.

            Trowa ran barefoot to his horse and grabbed the reins. While the poor beast sidestepped and tossed his head, he swung onto the geldings back and kicked hard. Leaving behind a cloud of dust, the buckskin tore down the rutted trail, his hooves clanging sharply on the rocks.

            "Wait!" Relena cried, cursing the buttons of her blouse as she yanked on her boots, then ran to her sorrel mare and climbed into the saddle. "Come on," she urged, shoving her knees into the mare's ribs. The little quarter horse leaped forward, half stumbling down the rocky trail. Relena slapped her with the reins, and the mare scrambled down the hill.

            Wind tore at Relena's face and hair, and tears blurred her eyes as she club burr-like to her horse's neck. Trowa was yards in front of her, cutting away from the trail and through the trees. "Wait!" she called again.

            He didn't even glance back. Tucked low over the buckskin's shoulders, he streaked ahead.

            "Giddap!" Relena screamed, praying that the smoke pouring from the stables was from a fire already under control – trying to stop the horrid dread knotting in her stomach. Her game little mare sprinted into the pines, and Relena had to duck to escape being scraped off by low hanging branches. "Come on, come on," she whispered as they broke from the trees and raced across a long pasture leading to the stables.

            The ranch was a madhouse. Stable boys, ranch hands, and the kitchen help were running through the yard, yelling at one another, turning hoses onto the burning building. Thick, pungent smoke clogged the air, changing day to night. Flames crackled and leaped through the roof. Horses shrieked in terror, their horrific cries punctuating the ring of steel-shod hooves pounding against splintering wood.

            "Dear God," Relena prayed. "Dear God, save them!"

            Trowa yanked his horse to a stop, and as the buckskin reared, Trowa jumped to the ground, then vaulted the fence.

            "Stop! Trowa, no!" Relena cried, stricken as her sweaty mare slid to a halt near the gate. She leaped onto, then over, the top rail of the fence. Her eyes were glued to Trowa as he raced, shouldering his way through useless ranch hands toward the stables. "Somebody stop him! Trowa!"

            Smoke burned her lungs and her eyes stung as she followed, stumbling forward. Somewhere in the distance she heard the wail of sirens. "Trowa!"

            "You can't go in there," her brother, Milliardo, commanded. He seemed to come from nowhere through the smoke.

            "Like hell."

            "Precisely." His gaunt face was streaked with soot, his hair grimy, his face red as he stared at the inferno. Hot, crackling flames knifed through charred shingles in the sagging roof. "Just like hell."

            "Trowa's in there!" she cried, still heading across the yard. But Milliardo had no trouble keeping up with her, taking one swift stride to her two.

            "Listen to me, Relena," he yelled over the roar of the fire, the shouts of men and the screams of terrified animals. "You can't –,"

            "I have to!" She was running now, only a few yards from the stables. Milliardo tackled her, his momentum pushing her to the ground. Her chin bounced on gravel, but she didn't care. She had to get to Trowa.

            "Damn it, Relena," Milliardo's voice hissed urgently in her ear, "Most of the Barton family's already trapped in there!"

            "No!"

            "When the fire broke out, Une and Treize tried to help save the animals and the ranch records stored in the office."

            Struggling to a sitting position, Relena clamped a trembling hand over her mouth and shook her head, staring at the burning building. Originally two stories, the stable had an upper floor used for storage and an office. The horses, the pride of the Barton ranch, had been boxed in stalls on the ground level. Relena thought she would retch.

            "The fire department will be here soon," Milliardo said, his voice rough from the smoke, his strong arms holding her back. "There's nothing anyone can do until they get here."

            "We can't just sit here and watch them burn!" she choked out, feeling helpless.

            Sirens screamed nearby and heavy tires crunched on the gravel. Red and white lights flashed through the smoke. A paramedic van ground to a stop, followed by a red car from the fire department. Three huge, rumbling trucks roared behind.

            The fire chief threw open the door of his car and shoved a bullhorn to his mouth. "Everybody get back!" he ordered, his eyes searching the grounds as he waved to the driver of the pumper truck. "There's a lake around behind!" The truck tore around the main house to the large pond now reflecting scarlet. Firemen jumped from the trucks, dragging heavy canvas hoses toward the stables. "I want that barn contained and the surrounding buildings covered. We can't trust the wind today."  
            Water began jetting from the hoses, arcing high in the air before spraying over the burning building, sizzling as the first jets hit scorched timbers. Relena broke away from her brother and ran to the chief, Milliardo on her heels. "You've got to save them! Relena cried over the deafening cacophony of pumps, screams, the roar of the fire and her own, hammering heart.

            "The horses, or –?"

            "The Bartons are in there," Milliardo clarified, yanking a thumb toward the stables. "They might be upstairs in the office or on the ground floor. They were trying to save the stock –,"

            "Christ!" the chief swore. "How many?"

            "Five – no, four. Trowa and his parents, Trieze and Une. And…and Dad, Matthew Dorlian, the ranch foreman."

            "Dad too?" Relena whispered hoarsely.

            "That's it?" the chief demanded, his tired eyes narrowing on Milliardo. "What about Mark Barton and the other Barton son – what's his name?"

            "Duo," Relena murmured, thinking of Trowa's younger, daredevil brother and praying that he was safe.

            Milliardo shook his head. "Mark and Duo are in town, and I think the rest of the hands are accounted for."

            "Make sure," the chief insisted. Snapping the bullhorn over his mouth again, he barked, "Okay, we've got four people trapped inside, possibly more. Upstairs and down. Get 'em out!" He glanced back at Relena and must have read the dread on her face. "Get her out of here," he said to Milliardo. "There's nothing she can do."

            "I'm not leaving," she insisted.

            "Come on, Relena –"

            "Not when Trowa and Dad are in there. No way!" She started forward and tripped over a hose.

            "You're in the way, lady," the fire chief said.

            "Hey, Chief! We got one!" One of the firemen was dragging a coughing, soot-streaked man from the fire. Relena tried to run forward, but Milliardo's arms tightened around her waist.

            "Maybe you don't want to see this," he said.

            "Let me go!"

            "It might be Trowa –"

            "Then I have to be with him!" Her heart pounding with dread, she shook him off and started running.

            The paramedics reached the rescued man first. They were already working over him, forcing oxygen into his lungs when Relena recognized her father, his face black, his white hair singed.

            "Thank God," she whispered, falling to the ground near him.

            "Hey, lady, give us a break! We need a little room," one paramedic snapped, and she backed away on her knees, her eyes glued to her father's face. Gray beneath the streaks of soot, his skin looked slack and old. His thick white hair had been singed yellow and he was coughing so hard he nearly threw up.

            _But he was alive._ Closing her eyes, she prayed silently.

            Her father blinked rapidly, still coughing, his eyes unfocused.

            "Get him into an ambulance," the fire chief ordered. He glared grimly at her father. "You see anyone else in there?"

            "I-I don't know," he mumbled, still coughing.

            The paramedic glanced at the fire chief. "He wouldn't know. He's three sheets to the wind."

            Relena swallowed back a hot retort as she leaned over her father and smelled the familiar scent of whiskey on his breath.

            A pickup roared down the drive and slammed to a stop. The driver, Trowa's younger brother, Duo, jumped out of the cab and started forward, his boots crunching on gravel as he ran faster and faster toward the fire chief. "What the hell's going on here?" he asked, his face white as he stared at the stables. Orange flames shot out of the roof and heat rippled in sickening waves from the inferno.

            Matthew coughed loudly and stirred, his red-rimmed eyes focusing on his daughter. "Relena, girl?" he murmured, cracking a weary smile.

            "Thank God, you're all right!" She wrapped her arms around his grimy work shirt, buried her head in his chest. "Did you see Trowa?"

            "You were with him," Matthew said. He shook his head. "No one –,"

            "But Trowa's in there! So are his parents," she protested, her head snapping up.

            "Oh, God!" Duo cried. Without thinking he started for the stables. 

            "It's too late!" Milliardo yelled. "Duo! Stop! Damn him!"

            "Stay back!" the chief commanded through the horn. "Christ! Somebody stop him –,"

            A blast ripped through the stables, and the building exploded in a fiery burst. Glass shattered, spraying out. Timbers groaned and crashed to the ground. Flames crackled and reached to the sky in hellish yellow fingers. The earth shuddered.

            Relena fell to the ground sobbing, knowing in her heart that Trowa would never survive.

            "Come on, Rel," Milliardo whispered, picking her up and carrying her to his old, battered truck as the firemen and hands recovered and scurried toward the stables.

            As if in a dream, Relena saw her father being loaded into the ambulance, felt the scratchy denim of Milliardo's jacket against her cheek. "There's nothing more we can do here," Milliardo said softly. "I don't think there's anything anyone can."

            "But Trowa…"

            "I know, Rel. I know."

And that's only the prologue…

Reviews?


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: If I owned the GW guys…oh what I would do. [evil cackle]

**Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 1)**

Seven Years Later… 

            "I don't want it!" Trowa Barton declared as he dropped into a tufted leather chair close to Heero Yuy's desk.

            "We're talking about the entire ranch," the young attorney reminded him. Heero was serious; his Prussian blue eyes steady behind thin lenses, his grecian features pulling together. He smoked a twisted black cigar.

            The old-fashioned Western cheroot smelled foul and seemed completely out of place in this modern chrome-and-glass office building, Trowa thought. He rubbed the scar on the back of his left hand. "I guess you didn't hear me. I don't want it. Sell the whole damned thing,"

            "We can't do that without your brother's consent," Heero said in that soothing lawyer tone that irritated the hell out of Trowa.

            "No one knows where Duo is. I haven't heard from him in years."

            "Nonetheless, half the ranch is his – half yours. Split fifty-fifty. That's the way your father wanted it, and your uncle saw fit to carry out his wishes."

            "I wish Mark had talked to me first," Trowa said flatly. If his uncle weren't already dead, he gladly would have wrung the old meddler's neck.

            "Too late now," Heero said succinctly.

            Trowa's lips twisted at the irony. Though he'd been away from the Barton Ranch for seven years and had ignored his uncle's repeated pleas to visit, the old man had gotten him in the end. "Okay," he decided, flopping back in his chair. "Just sell my half."

            "Can't do that. Back taxes."

            "Son of a –,"

            The door opened and Heero's secretary, a willowy woman with pale blond hair, eyes heavy with mascara and a glossy smile, carried in a tray of coffee, cream and sugar.

            "Just set it on the desk, Dorothy," Heero instructed as he puffed on his cigar, gradually filling the room with bluish smoke.

            Dorothy did as she was bid, casting Trowa an interested glance that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Even after three successful operations, he felt as if his burns were as red and harsh as when he was dragged barely alive from the fire.

            The fire – always the fire. He had never escaped it. Not really. And he never would.

            His guts churned at the memory, and he tried to concentrate on the plastic cup of black coffee Heero handed him.

            "So, you think your uncle was getting back at you by leaving you the ranch?"

            "Wasn't he?"

            "It's over a thousand acres of Montana ranch land," Heero said dryly. "Doesn't seem like such a curse."

            "No?" Trowa sipped the coffee. It was scalding and bitter. He didn't really much care. "Why weren't the back taxes paid?"

            "The ranch has been in the red for the past few years."

            'I thought there were suppose to be huge silver deposits on the land," Trowa said, thinking back to those years of speculation, before the fire, when both his parents and uncle had been excited at the prospect of mining silver from the ridge overlooking the ranch – the ridge where he'd lain with Relena while a smoldering cigarette butt ignited dry straw in the stables far below.

            "I guess the silver didn't exist," Heero said.

            "Too bad," Trowa muttered. "What about the stock?'

            "It's holding its own, I think. Your uncle seemed to think that he was on the brink of turning things around."

            Trowa doubted it. Heero was just giving him the sales pitch that good old Uncle Mark had peddled him time and time again over the past few years. Trowa hadn't bought it then and he wasn't buying it now. "The stables were never rebuilt after the fire, right?'

            "The insurance company paid reluctantly – claimed the fire was arson. The fire chief concurred. Unfortunately the building was grossly underinsured. The money only covered cleaning up the mess and adding a few stalls to the barn." Heero squinted through his glasses. "Mark was hell-bent on suing the insurance company – claimed he'd been misrepresented, that he'd paid higher premiums than he should have for the amount of coverage. But he finally gave it up."

            "On your advice?'

            Heero nodded and drew on his cigar. "What's your point?'

            "The point is that the Barton ranch is little more than a few decrepit buildings, some rangy cattle, a few horses and acres of sagebrush."

            "Some people would see it differently."

            Trowa leaned back in his chair. "Maybe. I call them as I see them. The place isn't worth much. Let's get what we can out of it and call it good."

            Heero sighed. "This is a mistake."

            "Not my first." Tugging at his collar with two fingers, Trowa wished this whole mess were over and done with. He didn't need any reminders of the past.

            Shoving a copy of the will across the desk, Heero said flatly, "There's nothing he can do until the taxes are paid."

            "I'll pay them."

            "Okay, that's the first hurdle. Now, what about Colton?"

            "Find him."

            "That won't be easy."

            "There has to be a way," Trowa said wearily. "Last I heard he was still a US citizen. Start with the State Department, a private investigator, the IRS and the CIA."

            "It'll take time."

            Trowa narrowed his eyes. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

            "I tried writing him through that magazine he free-lanced for a couple of years back," Heero explained. "Never received a reply."

            "Keep trying." Trowa glared angrily at the will. "I can wait." He felt his jaw clench at his next thought. "Is old man Dorlian still running the place?'

            Shrugging slim shoulders beneath his jacket, Heero said, "Far as I know. But I heard Mark say once that Dorlian's daughter is really in charge. I can't remember her name." He crushed out his cigar.

            "Relena," Trowa bit out, her name stinging his tongue. After seven years, he still felt needlelike jabs of regret that had turned bitter with age. If he tried, he could still recall the taste of her skin that hot day. But he wouldn't. No need to dredge up a past based on lies.

            "Yeah, that's it. Mark confided in me that she covers for her old man." Heero leaned back in his chair and regarded Trowa carefully. "Apparently Matthew Dorlian has a drinking problem."

            "Some things haven't changed," Trowa observed.

            "You can do what you want, of course. But since you're in Montana already, you may as well drive over and check out the place, make sure you really want to sell."

            "I do."

            "So you've said. I just thought you might want to find out why a ranch that was owned free and clear was losing money hand over fist – at least until recently.

            Trowa considered. He knew why: poor management. Matthew Dorlian knew horses but couldn't handle a ranch. Trowa's father had seen to it and had been ready to let Matthew go just before the fire…the damned fire. Unfortunately Uncle Mark had kept Relena's old man on. No one could prove Matt had started the blaze, and Mark had been convinced of the man's innocence. Trowa wasn't so sure. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Isn't finding out how much the ranch is worth and how much it earns a job for the bank that's probating the estate?"

            Heero smiled crookedly. "Are you willing to trust someone from Second Western Bank to understand the ins and outs of ranching?'

            Trowa snorted.

            "Right." Heero tugged on his tie. "Of course it's up to you. It's yours now."

            "Great. Just great." Trowa shoved his chair back and strode angrily out the door, past the blond receptionist and through the labyrinthine corridors of the law firm – the largest in Helena, Montana. Although small compared to most in Los Angeles, where Trowa had lived for the past seven years, the firm of O'Brien, Simmons and Taft was top-notch even by California's high standards, and Heero Yuy, a junior partner, knew his stuff.

            Shouldering open the glass door, Trowa stalked onto the street. The pace in Helena was much slowly than that in Los Angeles and Trowa was restless. Heero's advice followed him into the parking lot where his rented car was baking in the late-afternoon sun. Clouds gathered above, but there wasn't a breath of wind, and the humidity was unusually high, the air stick.

            Trowa climbed in and switched the ignition, unwilling remembering the inferno.

            It had all happened so fast. One minute he'd been lying on Relena, her dew-covered skin fusing with his own, her lips soft and sensuous, her sky-blue eyes glazed in passion – the next he'd witnessed the horror of the blaze, horses screaming in death throes, hooves crashing in the billowing, lung-burning smoke. He'd felt the explosion, been thrown to the floor.

            When he finally awakened, his skin burning, his face and hands unrecognizable, it had been three days later. He'd learned the devastating news: both his parents had been killed.

            Duo, eyes red and shadowed, coffee-colored bangs falling over his eyes, had been waiting for Trowa to wake up.

            "It's old man Dorlian's fault," Duo insisted as he huddled near Trowa's bed, avoiding his eyes and watching the steady drip of an IV tube that ran directly into the back of Trowa's right hand.

            "How – how could it be?" God, he hurt all over.

            "He's been stealing from the ranch. He was up in the office altering the books when the fire started. If you ask me, he did it to destroy the evidence."

            "You can't prove it."

            "Can't I?" Duo thundered, his cobalt blue eyes sizzling like lightning. "Weren't you suppose to go over the books that day? Didn't Relena insist that you go riding with her instead?" He stood then, the back of his neck dark in anger, his boots muffled on the carpeting.

            Trowa's dry throat worked in defense.

            "What did she do? Seduce you?" Duo must have seen some betraying spark in Trowa's eyes. "Of course she did," he muttered in disgust.

            "No –,"

            "Don't you see? It was all part of the plan – Matthew's plan to rip off the ranch! Dad was on to him, and he had to cover his tracks."

            "No way!" Trowa rasped.

            "Whose idea was it to go riding?"

            Trowa didn't answer.

            "Right. And I'll bet Relena was more than willing."

            "Get out of here."

            Duo didn't move. "You're a blind man, brother! She and that drunk of an old man of hers have been bleeding us dry. I'd even bet Milli is in on it with them."

            Trowa tried to sit up, pushing aside the pain that scorched the length of his body. "I won't believe –,"

            "Then don't. But think about this. Mom and Dad are dead, Trowa. Dead! Dad thought Matt was embezzling, and he was out to prove it. Doesn't it seem a little too convenient that all the ranch were destroyed on the day Dad asked you to go over the books?

            "He didn't say a word about Matthew."

            "He couldn't, could he?" Duo pointed out. "He wanted an impartial opinion!" Duo's furious gaze skated across the wrinkled sheets and guaze bandages to land on Trowa's scarred face. "I know that you and I have never seen eye to eye, but I thought you'd agree with me on this one." His jaw worked for a minute. "They're gone, Trowa. And you – look at you." Duo's eyes clouded with pity. "Look what they did, for Christ's sake."

            "Get out!" Trowa didn't want to think about the damage to himself. He'd always been proud, and the look on Duo's face twisted his guts. He couldn't think about the pity in Relena's eyes should she ever see him again.

            Duo's cobalt eyes flashed furiously. "Anyway you cut it, Trowa, Matthew Dorlian is to blame." He strode out of the room then, leaving Denver alone with his scars and his memories. 

            Now, shaking his head to clear it of the unpleasant past, Trowa rammed the car into gear and backed out of the law firm's parking lot. The car rolled easily onto the street and Trowa turned north, toward the airport. Not once since the fire had he returned to the ranch. He'd never seen Relena again.

            At first pride had kept him from her, and eventually, Trowa had convinced him that she had, intentionally or not, conspired against him. He'd told himself he was doing her one big favor by leaving, and he'd been right. He had been badly scarred, physically and emotionally. Plastic surgery had fixed the exterior, he thought cynically as he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the same green eyes he'd been born with. One lid was a mere fraction lower than the other, but his skin was smooth, the result of more skin grafts than he wanted to count. But no surgeon or psychiatrist had been able to remove the bitterness he felt whenever he thought about that day.

            "So don't think about it," he muttered aloud, scowling at himself. It was many miles north to the ranch, and the airport was only across town. He could drive to the airport and return to Los Angeles as he'd planned, or he could phone his partner and take time off – the vacation he hadn't allowed himself in years. Wufei would understand, and business was unseasonably slow. But if he stayed in Montana, he'd have to face Relena again.

            His lips curved into a crooked, almost wicked smile. Maybe it was time. He saw the flashing neon sign of a local tavern and pulled into a pothole-pocked parking lot. One beer, he decided, then he'd make up his mind.

**A few notes here and there:** I'm too sexy for my shirt…too sexy for my shirt…so sexy that hurrrrrrrrrrrts. We need some R.E.V.I.E.W.S. here…heehee.


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I'm gonna huuuummmp this car, I'm gonna huuuuuump this tree, I'm gonna huuuuuump this Gundam…Which by the way, doesn't belong to me.

Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 2)

            With one quick stroke of her jackknife, Relena cut the twine. The bale split open easily. Snapping the knife closed, she shoved it into her pocket, then forked loose hay into the manger. Dust swirled in the air, and the interior of the old barn smelled musty and dry.

            Though it was evening, no breeze whispered through the open doors and only faint rays fro a cloud-covered sun filtered past the grime and cobwebs of the few circular windows cut high in the hayloft.

            The air was still, heavy with the threat of rain. She hoped the summer shower would break quickly and give relief to the parched ranch land. The ground was cracked and hard. And it was only the middle of August.

            She was already feeding the horses and cattle hay she'd cut barely a month before.

            Frowning, she heard the familiar sound of thudding hooves. Tails up and unfurling like silky flags, several of the younger horses raced into the barn. Behind the colts, the brood mares plodded at a slower pace.

            "Hungry?" Relena asked as several dark heads poked through the far side of the manger. A gray coal bared his teeth and nipped at a rival as the horses shoved for position. "Hey, slow down, there's enough for everybody." She chuckled as she forked more hay, shaking it along the long trough that served all the Barton horses.

            Once the Barton horses were fed, she tossed hay into a manger on the other side of the barn and grinned widely as three more horses plunged their heads into the manger. Their warm breath stirred the hay as they nuzzled deep, searching for oats. "In a minute," Relena said, admiring the stallion and two mares. These were her horses, and her heart swelled with pride at the sight of them. She owned several – six in all – but these three were her pride and joy, the mainstay of her small herd. "Hasn't anyone told you patience is a virtue?" She petted the velvet-soft nose of Brigadier, the stallion. A deep chestnut with a crooked white blaze and liquid eyes, he was spirited and feisty – and one of the best quarter horses in the state. At least in Relena's opinion.

            The two mares were gentler and shorter, one a blood bay, the other black. Both were with foal, and their bellies had started to protrude roundly. These three horses were the center of Relena's dreams. She'd work long hours, saved her money and even delayed finishing college to pay for them, one at a time. But the herd was growing, she thought fondly, eyeing Ebony's rounded sides, and finally Relena was through school. She reached across the manger and patted Brigadier's sleek neck.

            His red ears pricked forward then back, and he tossed his head, his man flying and his dark eyes glinting.

            "Okay, okay, I get the message." Grinning, Relena poured oats for her horses and heard contented knickers and heavy grinding of back teeth.

            Rain began to pepper the tin roof, echoing through the barn in a quickening tempo. "At last," Relena murmured. She jabbed a pitchfork into a nearby bale, tugged off her gloves and tossed them onto the lid of the oat barrel. Stretching, she turned for the house. But she stopped dead in her tracks.

            In the doorway, the shoulders of his denim jacket soaked, his wet brown hair plastered to his head, stood a man she barely recognized as Trowa Barton. She hadn't seen him for so long – not since that awful day. Though his face was familiar, it had changed, the features even more strikingly handsome. His hair was the same coat of chocolate brown, shorter than she remembered, but still thick as he pushed a wet lock off his forehead.

            "Trowa?" she whispered, almost disbelieving. Her heart began to slam against her ribs. Her father and Martha, the cook, had both speculated that Trowa might return to the ranch after his uncle's death, but Relena hadn't dared think he would show up.

            He crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder in the doorway. Behind him rain spilled from the gutters and showered the ground in sheets. The smell of fresh water meeting dusty earth filled the air. "It's been a long time, Relena," he finally said.

            Swallowing against a hard lump in her throat, she walked forward several steps. The horses snorted behind her and shifted restlessly, as if they, too, could feel the sudden electricity charging the air. "Yes, it has been a long time," she agreed, her voice as dry as the earth had been only a half hour before.

            As she met his green, green eyes, painful memories crowded her mind. As vivid as the storm clouds hovering over the surrounding mountains, as fresh as the rain pelting the roof, the pain of his rejection flashed through her thoughts.

            So many times she'd hoped she might meet him and not even mention the past – pretend total indifference to the wretched nights she'd lain awake, wounded to her very soul. But now that he was here, standing in front of her, she couldn't find one thread of that mantle of pride she'd sworn she'd wear. "I — I never thought I'd see you again."

            "No?" His expression was wry, his tone disbelieving. "Haven't you heard? I own the place."

            "Yes, I know, but –," Words failed her. Silence stretched heavily between them. "I – I knew it was possible, but it's just been so long." _So damned long._

            "I came back to straighten out a few things," he stated flatly, indifference masking his features. "I'll be here a couple of weeks I thought I'd better tell someone I was here. I can't find your father or the cook, what's her name?"

            "Martha Falls."

            "Right. Anyway, you're the first person I've run into."

            A little hurt tugged at her heart. Deep inside, she'd hoped he had been searching for her. She forced an even smile, though she couldn't help staring at his face, a face she'd loved so fiercely. Whatever scars had once discolored his skin were gone – faded to invisibility. Though he seemed changed, it was his callousness and age that caused the difference more than any surgery. But he was still handsome and earthy, she had to admit – and sensual in a way she hadn't remembered. "Most of the hands have gone into town," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. It's Friday night."

            He raised one of his eyebrows skeptically. "So who's holding down the fort?"

            "You're looking at her."

            "You?" He held her gaze for a second before glancing at his watch and frowning. "I figured you might have a date later."

            _Damn him._ "I do," she replied, a little goaded.

            If the thought of her going out bothered him at all, he managed to hide it. _What did you expect after seven years?_ She asked herself.

            "A date with a hot bath and a good book." She found her work jacket on a hook near the door and slid her arms through the sleeves.

            "That's not what I meant."

            "I know," she admitted, trying to compose herself. Why after all these years did her heart race at the sight of him? She dusted her hands and thought about the reason he'd come back: his uncle's estate. "I'm sorry about Mark."

            "Me too."

            "He didn't want a funeral –,"

            Waving off her explanation, he shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I just came back to tie up a few loose ends, that's all. Where's your father? I thought he was running things."

            "He is. He, uh, had business in town."

            "But he's coming back?"

            "Of course."

            "When he gets back, tell him I want to see him. I'll be up at the house." He glanced through the rain toward the weathered two-story farmhouse across the yard. 

            Relena's gaze followed his.

            With its high-pitched roof, dormers and broad front porch, the old house had stood in the same spot for nearly a hundred years. It had been updated since the turn of the century – two bathrooms, central heat and electricity had been added – but it still appeared as it had when it was built by Trowa's great-great-grandfather.

            Trowa cleared his throat then looked at her again, his eyes studying her face. She felt his gaze sliding from her straight red-blond hair past sky-blue eyes and a freckle-dusted nose to the sharp point of her chin. She wondered how he saw her – if she looked as he'd remembered. If he even cared.

            "You know," she whispered, clinging to her rapidly escaping courage and feeling her fists curling into tight balls as she thought about the past, "I've waited all this time to ask you this one question."

            His head jerked up. "Shoot."

            "Why?" She stood dry-eyed in front of him, her chin tilted upward, her eyes searching his face – a face she'd loved with all her youthful heart, "Why wouldn't you talk to me?"

            A muscle jumped angrily in his jaw. "Didn't seem the thing to do."

            "But you could have called or something –," She lifted her hands helplessly and hated the gesture. Despite the fact that seeing him again opened old wounds, she could let him see that she was still vulnerable to him in any way.

            Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he crossed the weathered barn floor, eyeing the munching horses, the hayloft now full of new-mown hay, and the bins and barrels of oats, wheat and corn. "By the time I thought about it, there was no point," he said. Then his gaze softened a little and he studied the rusted bit of an old bridle hanging on the wall. He ran his fingers slowly along the time-hardened leather reins. "I thought by now you'd be married with five kids."

            "So did I."

            "What happened?" He regarded her with genuine perplexity, and she felt some of her old anger simmer again.

            "The man I wanted to marry left town without saying a word."

            He didn't move. The rain beat steadily on the roof, breaking the silence that stretched yawningly between them.

            Relena forced the issue. Though quaking inside, she sensed this might be her only chance to find out what had happened. "You wouldn't see me in the hospital," she accused, her voice surprisingly calm, "wouldn't take my calls and returned all my letters unopened."

            His jaw hardened. He dropped the reins but didn't say a word. One horse nickered and Relena glanched toward the manger.

            The way she saw it, Trowa's silence was as damning as if he'd said he hadn't cared. She drew on all her courage. "Before I knew what was happening, my dad told me you'd taken off for Los Angeles."

            He almost smiled, his eyes narrowing. "I couldn't keep the plastic surgeon waiting."

            "Without saying goodbye?" she asked, bewildered and wounded all over again. "After everything we'd planned?"

            "We didn't plan anything, Relena."

            The wind shifted. Rain poured through the open door. "But you'd asked me to marry you, move to L.A. –,"

            "I _never_ said a word about marriage," he cut in, his voice harsh. "Think about it. You were the one who wanted to tie me down."

            Relena nearly gasped. "I didn't –,"

            "Sure you did. You kept trying to convince me that I should stay here, with you, on this damned ranch." Standing at his full height, using its advantage to stare down at her and drill her with his piercing emerald gaze, he added, "I had no intention of staying."

            "I loved you," she said boldly, the words ringing in the barn. "I might have been naïve, but I did love you, Trowa."

            Trowa's muscles tensed, the skin over his features stretching taut. "We were two kids experimenting, Relena – finding out about our bodies and sex. Love had nothing to do with it."

            "You don't believe that!" she cried, feeling as if he'd slapped her. "You couldn't!"

            "Time has a way of making the past crystal clear, don't you think?"

            Relena's chin wobbled, but she forced her head up proudly. He wiped the rain from his hair, and she saw his hand, the burns still visible. Suddenly she understood. "You were afraid to see me," she whispered, her eyes widening with realization as they clashed with his again.

            His face was unreadable and stony. "Think what you want."

            She walked towards him, her steps quickening as she closed the distance. "That's it, isn't it? You were afraid that because of your scars –,"

            "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe what happened between us just wasn't that important?"

            "No!"

            "Relena, Relena…you were always a dreamer."

            His words hit hard and stung, like the cut of a whip. As if to protect herself, she stumbled backward, wrapped her arms around her waist and leaned against one cobweb-draped wall. "What happened to you, Trowa?" she murmured, staring at the bitter man whom she had once treasured. "Just what the hell happened to you?"

            "I got burned." Hiking his collar up, he turned and strode through the slanting rain. Ducking his head, he marched across the gravel yard, his boots echoing loudly as he disappeared into the house.

            Relena stared after him, her heart thudding painfully. Dropping onto the haw-strewn floor, she buried her face in her hands. For years she'd imagined running into him again, hopping deep in her heart that there might be some little spark in his eyes – a hint that he still care. And even if he didn't love her again, she'd told herself, she could be content knowing that he, too, felt a special warmth at the thought that she had been his first love.

            She'd been practical, not harboring any fanciful dreams that one day they could fall in love again. But she'd hoped that after an initial strained meeting, she and Trowa would eventually become close – not as lovers, but as friends.

            It had been a stupid, childish dream. She knew that now. Trowa had changed so much.

            Surprised that her hands were wet, that she'd actually shed tears for a man who had turned into such a soulless bastard, she sniffed loudly, wiped her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Never again, she told herself bitterly. These were the last tears she would ever shed for Trowa Barton!

Just click that little "Go" and write a commentary…reviews are needed…by the way, if you see any errors in this story, can you give me a heads up?


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: One…two…HUH! What is it good for?? Absolutely **nothing**. Yeah, I'm singing about this disclaimer…

**Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 3) **

            Determined to be as cool and indifferent as Trowa, Relena marched through the rain to the house. The nerve of the man! She thought. He'd waltzed back into her life only to tell her that everything they had shared had been lies. He had twisted the truth to serve his own purposes. Well, he could twist it all he liked!

            She wasn't afraid of Trowa or his lies. He couldn't possibly hurt her more than he already had.

            Seething, she kicked off her boots on the back porch and stalked into the kitchen in her stocking feet. The mingled smells of warm coffee, stale cigarettes and newsprint filled the air. Illuminated by one remaining low-watt bulb, the room was muted, some of its defects hidden.

            Relena half expected to find Trowa at the table, but the kitchen was empty. She knew he had to be in the house – or on the grounds nearby. His rental car was parked near the garage, under the overhanging branches of an ancient oak, and she'd watched him storm into the house just minutes before.

            "So who cares?" she asked herself angrily. He'd made himself perfectly clear. She meant nothing to him and so much the better. At least now they could get down to business. She poured herself a cup of coffee from a glass pot still warming on the stove, took a sip and grimaced before tossing the remaining dregs down the drain. She refilled the cup with hot water for instant coffee and placed it in the microwave.

            She listened, but didn't hear a sound other than the hum of the refrigerator, the gentle whir of the tiny over and the drip of the rain outside. Maybe Trowa had left through the front door.

            Usually after chores, if Relena found a few minutes to herself, she enjoyed the time, but now, as she stirred decaf crystals into her cup and pretended to read the headlines of the newspaper spread all over the kitchen table, she was tense.

            The overhead bulb flickered, stroking the chipped Formica, the yellowed layers of wax on the old linoleum and the nicked cabinets. The entire ranch was falling apart, and the disrepair was glaringly evident. Trowa would soon discover just how bad things were. Maybe she should tell him – get everything out in the open.

            Still wrestling with that decision, she walked through the corridor leading to the stairs but stopped when she noticed a crack of light glowing under the study door. So Trowa had holed up in the office. No doubt he was already pouring over the books – searching for flaws. Her fingers curled tightly over the handle of her cup. If it took every ounce of grit within her, she had to find a way to work with him and get through the next few days without antagonizing him. Her father needed this job. Since the fire no one else in Three Falls would hire Matthew Dorlian.

            She twisted the knob, shoving on the door.

            Trowa was right where she expected him to be – seated behind Mark's old walnut desk. Leaning over a stack of ledgers and invoices, his head bent, light from the desk lamp gleaming in his brown hair, he worked, finally glancing up. "What?" His shirtsleeves were pushed over his forearms, leaving his dark skin bare.

            An old ache settled in Relena's heart. She stared at him a second, and she had trouble finding her voice. "Making yourself at home?" she asked finally. Though she tried to sound nonchalant, as if she didn't care one whit about him, there was a wistful ring in her words.

            Trowa leaned so far back in his chair that it creaked against his weight. Impatiently he stretched his arms, and then cradled the back of his head in his hands. "I'm only staying a couple of weeks – to iron out a few things."

            "Such as?"

            "Back taxes for starters." His gaze shifted to a stack of unpaid bills. "Those next. And eventually the accounts with the feed store, hardware store –" he lifted a thick pile of paper. "Whatever it takes."

            "To do what?"

            His eyes narrowed. "To clean up this mess. According to Mark's lawyer, there have been all kinds of problems here – repairs that need to be made and haven't, bills unpaid, you name it!"

            "Every ranch has…cash flow problems," she pointed out.

            "What about that stallion that disappeared last spring – the best stallion on the place?"

            Relena cringed inside. She had hoped Trowa hadn't heard about that. "Black Magic was lost. But we found him again –" 

            "He wasn't found. He just showed up."

            Her voice was tight. "It doesn't matter. The point is, Black Magic returned and he's fine!"

            Trowa's lips twisted. "The point is that things are going to hell in a hand basket around here." He thumped his fingers on a stack of past-due bills. "This place is drowning in red ink."

            "It's not that bad."

            "Isn't it?" His eyes flashed. 

            She bit back a hot retort. "Things are just beginning to turn around, Trowa," she said, ignoring the doubt in his eyes. "Tomorrow, when it's light, I'll take you around the ranch, show you the progress that isn't recorded in the checkbook."

            His jaw shifted to the side, but he didn't argue.

            "A ranch is more than dollars and cents, debits and credits, you know. A ranch is horses and cattle and machinery and people working together on land that matters."

            One corner of his mouth curved up. "You haven't changed, have you?" he said, his voice husky. "Still a dreamer."

            "I know what's valuable, Trowa. I always have. And sometimes it doesn't show on a checkbook stub." She gazed directly at him, wishing the strain near his eyes would disappear.

            "You've been wrong," he reminded her.

            "I don't think so – not about the things that really matter."

            His jaw clenched and he looked away – through the window to the dark night beyond. The desk lamp was reflected in the rain drizzling down the panes. "I should have talked to you a long time ago, I suppose."

            "It would have helped," she replied, feigning indifference.

            He looked as I he wanted to say more. For a second she caught a glimpse of him as he had years before. His green eyes turned as warm as grass on a July morning. Then, as swiftly as the warmth appeared, it disappeared again. "It doesn't matter now," he said, clearing his throat. "It's all water under the bridge."

            "Right," she lied. The entire room seemed filled with him, and, absurdly, she wanted to linger. "Can I get you anything? Make a fresh pot of coffee?"

            The corners of his eyes softened a bit. "Don't bother,"

            "It's no bother."

            "Relena," he said quietly. "Don't." Skin tightening over his cheekbones, he added, "If I need anything, I'll get it. I know my way around."

            Goaded, she quipped, "You're the boss," and was rewarded with a severe glance.

            Reaching for the doorknob, she heard the sound of an engine in the distance and recognized the rumble of her father's pickup. She flanked out the window. Matthew Dorlian's dented yellow truck bounced into the yard.

            "Company?" Trowa asked.

            "Just Dad."

            His eyes narrowed. "Good. He and I have to talk." He watched the beams of headlights through the rain-speckled windows, and his mouth compressed into a thin, uncompromising line.

            The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "What about?"

            "Everything. We'll start with what he knows about all the money he's managed to lose for this ranch."

            "Trowa," she whispered. "Don't -,"

            "Don't what?"

            Her eyes sparked. "Don't judge before you have all your facts straight."

            "But that's what I'm here to do," he said, turning to her, his voice cold. "Get my facts straight. Matthew can help clear up a few cloudy issues."

            "What's that supposed to mean?"

            "He's been in charge a long time and things -," he gestured around the shabby room, to the scarred desk, the dingy walls and threadbare drapes "-haven't gotten any better. In fact, this place seems to be on the verge of falling apart."  
            "And you blame Dad."

            "I don't blame anyone. Not yet. But there's got to be a reason, Relena. I just want to know what it is.

            "The screen door banged shut and Relena heard her father call out. "Relena? You 'round? Martha?"

            A satisfied smile crossed Trowa's lips as he stood and started for the door. But she clamped her arm around his elbow, her fingers tight over his bare forearm. The feel of his skin shocked her. Hard muscles flexed beneath her hands, soft hair brushed against her fingertips.

            Trowa stopped, glaring at her fingers as if they were intruders.

            "Dad didn't start the fire, Trowa," she insisted. "No matter what Duo said, dad wasn't behind it."

            "Who said anything about the fire?"

            "You didn't have to," she replied, meeting his seething gaze with her own. "It's written all over your face."

            "Is it? How?" he shoved his face close to hers, so close that she saw the pinpoints of fire in his eyes, read his anger in the flare of his nostrils. "What is it you see when you so closely, Relena?" he bit out.

            The scent of rain lingered in his hair.

            Relena could barely breathe. Though her senses were reeling, she wouldn't back down, not for a second. Her fingers dug into his arms. "What I see," she said evenly, though her heart was hammering out of control, "is a bitter man, hell-bent on extracting his own punishment for an imagined crime, a man who's irrational desire for retribution clouds his judgment."

            "Is that right?" he mocked.

            "And more! I see a man who's taking all his bitterness out on a tired old man and a woman who once thought he was the most important thing in her life!"

            A muscle worked in his jaw. "Then you're a blind woman, Relena."

            "I don't think so."

            "Maybe you'd better take a harder look."

            "Don't worry, I will. You left this ranch and haven't stepped foot on it in seven years. _Seven years_, Trowa. So what gives you the right to come back now?"

            The cords in his neck tightened. "I own this place. Remember?"

            "You and Duo,"

            "Well he isn't around, is he?"

            "Relena? That you?" her father called through the study door.

            "In here, Dad!" she shouted back.

            "What in blazes are you doin' in here at this time of -?" Matthew Dorlian shoved open the door and stepped into the dimly lit room. Color seemed to wash out of his weathered face. "Well, I'll be," he muttered, unconsciously smoothing his white hair with the flat of his hand. The scent of stale whiskey and cigarettes followed him as he crossed the room. His pale eyes focused more clearly. "I was wonderin' when you'd show up."

            Unspoken accusations hung like cobwebs, dangling between them. Trowa's eyes had turned so frigid, Relena actually shivered.

            Through tight lips, Matthew said, "I figured it wouldn't be long before you and Duo would want to check things out."

            "I've already started." Trowa's jaw was rigid, his eyes blazing with warning, but Matthew, whether bolstered by the whiskey or his own sense of pride, didn't back down.

            "Good," he shot back. "About time you took some interest in things." Hooking his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, he turned to Relena. "I'm gonna make me a sandwich. You want anything?"

            "I'm fine," Relena lied. Beneath her ranch-tough veneer, she was shredding apart bit by bit, she wouldn't have been able to eat a bite if she tried. She heard her father amble down the hallway to the kitchen as she whirled on Trowa. "What was _that_ all about?"

            "What?"

            "You know what! You were baiting him, for God's sake."

            "Was I?" He arched an insolent eyebrow. "All I said was that I was going to look things over."

            "It wasn't so much what you said as how you said it. You implied something was going on here that wasn't aboveboard."

            "You're overreacting."

            "Just don't act like my dad's some kind of criminal, okay? Try and remember who stayed here and held this ranch together while you and your brother took off to God only knows where."

            "I went to L.A.," he said, his voice cold. "Just as I'd planned."

            She turned away. All these years she'd harbored some crazy little hope that he'd really cared for her, that he'd considered staying with her on the ranch, that she could have convinced him to stay in Montana with her if not for the fire. She hadn't really believed his words that their affair had meant nothing to him.

            Her chin trembled, but she met his gaze. His eyes flared back at her without a hint of warmth in their emerald depths. "So you said." She strode furiously down the hall to the kitchen, Her cheeks were flaming with injustice, and she felt her fists curl as tight as the hard knot in her stomach.

            Her father was sitting in one of the beat-up chairs at the table. His cigarette burned in an ashtray, and a cup of coffee sat streaming on the stained oilcloth. "So he's back," Matthew grumbled, eyeing the local newspaper with disinterest.

            "For a little while."

            "How long?"

            "I don't know."

            "Humph."

            "As long as it takes," Trowa said from the hall. Leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he crossed his arms over his chest, the cotton weave of his shirt stretching taut over his shoulders.

            "As long as it takes to do _what_?" Matthew asked.

            Trowa's expression was calculating, his features hard. "I'm here to figure out why this ranch has lost money for the past five years."

            "That's simple enough," Matthew said. "The silver mines were a bust."

            "We made money before the mining."

            Matthew took a long drag on his cigarette. "But Mark took out loans for the equipment. Besides, prices are down and we had two bad winters – lost nearly a third of our herd. It's no mystery, Trowa. Ranchin' ain't exactly a bed of roses."

            "So I've heard," Trowa mocked.

            Matthew squinted through the smoke. "Seven years hasn't improved your disposition any, has it?"

            One of Trowa's dark eyebrows cocked. "Should it have?"

            Stubbing out his cigarette, Matthew shook his head. "Probably not. You Bartons are known for your bullheadedness."

            Surprisingly, Trowa's lips twitched. "Unlike you Dorlians."

            "Right," Matthew said, but he chuckled briefly as he pulled his jacket from a hook near the back porch. Squaring his stained hat on his head, he shoved open the back door and headed outside.

            You don't have to badger him, you know," Relena said, keeping her back to Trowa's lounging form.

            "I thought he was badgering me."

            "Maybe he was," Relena decided. "But you deserved it." Through the window, she saw her father's old truck bounce down the lane. Rain ran down the glass, blurring the glow of the taillights. "Dad's just an old man whose only crime is that he's given his life to this ranch."

            "And what's mine, Relena?" he asked, his voice low.

            She turned and caught him staring at her – the same way he'd studied her in the past. His face had lost some of its harsh angles, his expression had softened, and his eyes – Lord, his eyes – had darkened to a seductive emerald green.

            "You left me," she whispered, her throat suddenly thick. "You left us all – without a word of goodbye."

            He glanced away. "I regret that," he admitted, shoving a lock of brown hair from his forehead.

            "Why, Trowa? Why wouldn't you see me in the hospital?"

            His eyes narrowed and the line of his jaw grew taut again. "Because it was over. There was no point."

            "You could have explained it to me."

            "Unfortunately, I wasn't in tip-top shape," he said, his words cutting like a dull knife.  
            "Neither was I! You were in the hospital – I didn't know if you were going to live or die. My father was being accused of heinous crimes he had no part in, and no one would tell me anything! Good Lord, Trowa, can you imagine how I felt?"

            The corners of his mouth turned white. "And can you imagine what I was going through?" he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I was told I would never be the same, that I would probably never use my arm again. Both my parents were dead because of the fire, and a woman I trusted had set me up to cover for her old man!"

            "No!" Relena's widened in horror. "You couldn't believe -,"

            "I didn't know what to believe!" Advancing on her, his eyes boring into her, he said, "I just knew that my entire life had gone to hell!"

            He was so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, sense the anger simmering within him. "You could have given me a chance to explain before you set yourself as judge and jury!"

            "It was too late for explanations."

            "Maybe it's never too late."

            He gave a wry smile and some of his anger seemed to melt. Reaching forward, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, his fingertips grazing her cheek. "Still the dreamer, aren't you, Relena?"

            She swallowed hard, fighting a losing battle with the raw energy surging between them. "I-I think I've dealt with the past seven years realistically. At least I didn't run away."

            Sucking in a swift breath, he dropped his hand. His eyes blazed again. "Is that what you think?"

            "That's what happened. And now you're back, sweeping back in here like some sort of avenging angel-accusing my father of everything from arson to involuntary manslaughter."

            "I haven't accused him of anything."

            "Not in so many words, maybe," she said, her temper flaring wildly. "But it's obvious you blame him for the fire, just as you blame me."

            "When Matthew was here, we were talking about running the ranch."

            "Were we?" She strode across the room, tilting her head back, forcing her eyes to meet his. "You could have fooled me."

            "I don't want to talk about the fire," he snapped.

            "Then leave it alone, Trowa. Leave all of it alone. Because believe it or not, we've been working our tail ends off around here to save this place – a place you don't give a damn about!" She strode out of the room, letting the screen door slam behind her, then fumbled for the light on the porch.

            "Mule-headed bastard," she muttered, tugging her boots on before running down the back steps. The rain was coming down in sheets, pounding the earth, and turning the dust to mud. Bareheaded, Relena stalked furiously down the well-worn path to the paddocks. She leaned against eh wet fence, feeling the wind tease her hair and toss the wet strands across her face. She didn't care. This summer storm couldn't match the tempest of emotions raging deep in her soul.

I really dislike writing cliffhangers. Mostly because I can't make cliffhangers good. Review please.


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I don't think I'll do this anymore in the future chapters. You all know I don't own GW.

**Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 4)**

            _Damn! Damn! Damn!_ Her fingers flexed and curled. _Why did he have to come back? Why now?_

            Closing her eyes, she prayed the cool rain would wash away the pain, dampen the fires of injustice that burned so brightly in her heart.

            "Relena?" Trowa's voice, so near, made her jump, her heart still fluttering at the sound.

            "Leave me alone!"

            "What do you think you're doing out here?" he asked so calmly she wanted to scream.

            "Trying to put things in perspective."

            Leaning over the top rail, his eyes squinting against the darkness, he stood so close that his shoulder brushed hers. She didn't move. Couldn't. Raindrops, reflecting the blue glow from the single outside lamp, collected in his hair and drizzled down his throat.

            He hadn't bothered with a jacket, and his shirttail flapped in the wind. "Aren't you afraid of drowning?" he asked softly. 

            "In case you haven't heard, we're in the middle of a drought!"

            His eyes searched the dark heavens. "Not tonight, we're not."

            "The rain feels good." Why did she feel so defensive around him? Slowly counting to ten, she tried to control her temper. "Besides, we need every drop we get. The river's low and the fields are tinder-dry."

            As the wind slapped against his face and the rain plastered his hair, Trowa said, "This is crazy. Let's go inside where it's dry."

            "I'm fine out here."

            "Are you?" he tried to smother a smile and failed as he brushed a drip from the tip of her chin. His gaze shifted restlessly over her face. "You look like a drowned rat."

            "I bet you say that to all girls," she snapped, but couldn't help smiling.

            "Only when I'm trying to impress them."

            "So you're still the charmer you've always been."

            He laughed, a low rumbling sound that warmed the cool night. "Low blow, Relena."

            "You deserved it. You haven't been pulling any punches yourself."

            'I guess I haven't." The breeze snatched at his hair, ruffling it. "Come inside. _I'll_ pour _you_ a cup of coffee." The determined line of his jaw relaxed, and he looked more like the young man she'd love so fervently. He touched her lightly on the shoulder; his fingertips warm through her wet blouse. "Truce?"

            She shook her head. "I don't know if that's possible, Trowa." But she let him take her hand and told herself that the tingling sensation she felt in her palm was because of the storm. Hands linked, running stride for stride, they dashed through puddles in the backyard to the house.

            In the kitchen he tossed her a towel, and Relena wiped the rain from her face. As she sat in one of the chairs at the table, she studied him. His face had become lean and angular over the years, his skin dark and tight. But no amount of reconstructive surgery had been able to straighten his nose – a nose that had been broken when he fell from a horse at the age of twelve.

            He changed. The lines of boyish dimples that had creased his cheeks had dimpled into grooves of discontent, and his sensual mouth was knife-blade thin. A webbing of lines near his eyes indicted that he still squinted – but did he laugh and tease and smile as he once had?

            After pouring the coffee, he handed her a steaming mug. 

            She took a sip, nearly burning tongue. Cradling her mug in her hand, she leaned back in a chair and tossed the wet hair from her eyes. "I didn't really think you'd show up," she said. "I expected you'd sell your half of the place by phone."

            He scraped back a chair, straddled it and leaned forward, blowing across his mug. "I wanted to, but it wasn't that easy."

            So there it was. He admitted it. This ranch that she and her father had worked their bodies to the bone for meant nothing to him.

            "As I said, there's a problem with back taxes," he said. "Seems they've been neglected."

            "Money's been tight." A defensive note crept into her voice.

            "So I've heard."

            "And Duo?" she asked, wondering about Trowa's brother. "Does he feel the same about this place?"

            "I wish I knew." Trowa glanced pensively into the dark depths of his coffee. "Since he owns half the place, I need to know if wants to buy out my share or put the whole spread on the market."

            "So, no matter what happens, you're going to sell."

            "Right." He took a swig from his cup, without the slightest indication that he felt one second's regret.

            "Just like that?"

            "Just like that."

            She leaned closer to him, placing her elbows on the table for support, her wet hair falling forward. "What would you say if I told you I wanted to buy you out?"

            His features froze. "You?"

            'Right. And not just your share, but Duo's too."

            Trowa's mouth dropped open before he clamped it shut. "You don't want this ranch, Relena," he said quietly. "You couldn't."

            "Don't you presume anything about me, Trowa Barton," she replied, her eyes serious, her voice surprisingly strong. "I've thought about it a long time. I've worked hard on this place to have it sold out from under me."

            "Relena, this is crazy-,"

            "I'm not kidding, Trowa. If you're going to sell Barton Ranch, I intend to buy it." Before he could protest, she added, "I've got some money of my own, livestock I could sell if I need to, and I've already down the preliminary talking to a banker in Three Falls."

            "So you've got it all figured out."

            "Most of it."

            "Tell me," he drawled, "How do you expect to pull a ranch that can't hold its own back on its feet?

            "It can be done."

            "With a huge mortgage?" He shook his head and finished his coffee. "I don't see how."

            "That's the problem, Trowa," she said evenly. "You've got your eyes wide open, but you can't see what's right in front of your nose." Feeling a hot lump forming in her throat, she whispered, "You never could."

            Trowa's fingers curled over his cup. Relena was beautiful – _too beautiful_. He kicked back his chair, tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink and tried to ignore the firm thrust of Relena's jaw, the fire in her blue eyes, the way her damp blouse clung to her skin. Her hair, though wet, shone beneath the dim wattage in the kitchen, and her face was flushed in fury, touching the forbidden part of his soul he'd hoped had smoldered to a cold death seven years before. "I think I'll unpack." He needed time to think, time to put everything into perspective, time to remind himself that she'd betrayed him and his family. Distance would help. Being in the room with her, feeling her accusing gaze still drilling hot against his back, wasn't good.

            What was the old saying? That there was a thin line between love and hate? Convinced he was walking that line, Trowa realized he had to be careful – or he was sure to fall.

            "You can have the room at the top of the stairs," she said.

            "_I_ can have?" he asked, turning. She was still seated at the table, her eyes cool, and distant, he face more beautiful than he'd remembered.

            "It was Mark's room."

            "_I_ know whose room it was. I use to live here. Remember?"

            She let out a little strangled sound, and then cleared her throat. Unfortunately, I could never forget."

            To his disgust, he felt his guts wrenching, that same horrid pain he'd felt when Duo had convinced him that Relena was involved with her father in Matthew's scheme to fleece the ranch. To hide his weakness he leaned his hips against the counter and curled his fingers around the sharp edge. "What about my parents' room?"

            "I'm using it."

            "_You_?" he repeated. "You _live_ here?"

            "Yes." Standing, she shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. You can have any room you want, Trowa. Just let me know, so I can move my things."

            "Hold on a minute. Why are you living here?" he demanded, hot, fresh anger searing deep inside. Relena had lived under the same roof as Mark before his death?

            "It was more convenient."

            "I'll bet," he muttered, imagining her with his uncle. A bachelor for life, Mark Barton had gained a reputation with the local women. But Relena? Trowa's insides knotted. Repulsed at the image of Mark and Relena making love, he closed his mind and gritted his teeth. He wanted to discard the ugly idea, and yet he couldn't. He didn't really know Relena, not anymore. Maybe he never had.

            "What do you mean?" she asked before she caught the message in Trowa's stormy eyes. "You're kidding, right?" she whispered, lips twitching. "You don't really think I was Mark's -,"

            "Were you?"

            Laughter died in Relena's throat. Trowa was serious. Dead serious. And there was a possessive streak of jealously lighting his eyes. "Think about it, Trowa," she taunted, wounded once again. "You tell me." Her back so stiff it ached, she strode out of the room and ran up the stairs to her room.

            How could he think she would sleep with his uncle? The ugly thought made her sick! She threw open the closet and began stripping her clothes off hangers, hurling them onto the bed and kicking shoes into center of the room.

            One thing was certain, she thought furiously, she couldn't stay here at the house with Trowa. She yanked her suitcase and an old Army duffel bag from the shelf and heaved both onto the bed. Cheeks burning, she began attacking the drawers of her dresser with fervor.

            She slammed the top drawer. It banged hard against its casing, rattling the mirror. "Argumentative, insensitive beast!" she muttered through clenched teeth just as she caught sight of Trowa's image, staring at her from the mirror over the dresser.

            He surveyed her scatter clothes expressionlessly. "Don't let me stop you," he drawled.

            "You won't!" She threw her clothes haphazardly into the suitcase and stuffed the remainder into the duffel bag. "Believe me."

            Not everything fit. Corners of blouses and sweater sleeves poked out of the bag and she had trouble closing the lid of the suitcase. Finally it snapped shut. Lifting her head high, she said, "I'll be back for the rest in the morning."  
            With the suitcase swinging from one arm and the duffel bag tucked under the other, she strode across the bedroom and waited, the toe of one boot tapping impatiently, for him to move. "If you'll excuse me," she mocked.

            "No way."

            "Move, Trowa,"

            "Not until you explain what you were doing in this room."

            Her blue eyes snapped. "I don't have to explain anything to you, do I? You left me without a word – _not one damn word_! I don't owe you anything."

            His mouth tightened, but he was wedged in the doorjamb and she couldn't get around him.

            "This is stupid, Trowa."

            "Maybe."

            "Let me by."

            "As soon as you tell me why your father lives down at the ranch foreman's house and you live here."

            The truth was on the tip of her tongue, but her pride kept her silent. She glared up at him, willing her heart to stop beating like the fluttering wings of a butterfly, praying that he couldn't see the pulse leaping in her throat or notice that her knuckles had clenched white around the handle of her battered old suitcase. "As I said, Trowa, it was more convenient. Think what you want, because I don't really care."

            She attempted to brush past him then, but as soon as she stepped one foot over the threshold, his arm snaked forward and captured her waist. So swiftly that she gasped, he dragged her against him. Feeling every hard muscle in his chest, watching the fire leap in his eyes, she knew she was trapped – pressed tightly against his hard frame.

            Outside thunder cracked. Rain blew through the open window. The curtains billowed into the room. Yet Relena couldn't do anything but stare into Trowa's eyes. "What do you want me to say?" she rasped, barely able to speak. "Do you want me to say that your uncle and I were lovers?"

            A muscle leaped to life in his jaw, and his lips flattened over his teeth.

            "Or do you want me to say that he was just one in a long line – a line you started?"

            His arm dropped suddenly, and she nearly fell into the hallway. Disgust contorted his features, but she couldn't tell if he was revolted at her or himself. "You can stay," he said hoarsely. "I'll take the room at the end of the hall."

            "I don't want to stay."

            He plowed his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the old wainscoting in the corridor. But his face remained drawn, his muscles rigid. "It doesn't matter what happened. It's none of my business."

            "You're right, but it is your place." Wrestling up her bags down the stairs before she could change her mind.  
            "Relena -,"

            "I'll move back when I own the place." Shoving open the back door, she felt the rain and wind lash at her face. She had no car. Her father had the pickup, the station wagon was in the shop, and her brother, Milliardo, had borrowed the old flatbed.

            "Wonderful," she muttered, soaked to the bone almost before she started walking. If she cut through the fields, the trek was only a quarter of a mile – if she took the road, the distance tripled.

            She glanced longingly back at the farmhouse. The windows glowed in the night – warm, yellow squares in the darkness. Setting her jaw, she shoved open the gate and started across the wet fields.

            Before she'd gone ten yards, she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder and spin her around. "You little idiot," Trowa hissed.

            "Let go of me!"

            "Not until you're back in the house!" He snatched her bags with one hand.

            "I'm warning you – ohhh!"

            Hauling her off her feet, he threw her, fireman style, over one shoulder, one hand wrapped around her ankles in an iron vise.

            "Let me down right now! This is ridiculous!" _Damn the man._ But he didn't heed her muttered oaths or flailing fists as she pummeled his back.

            "Trowa, put me down! I mean it."

            Tightening his grip on her suitcase and bag, he strode purposefully back to the house. Mortified, she had to hang on to the back of his shirt for fear of sliding to the sodden ground. Her hair fell over her eyes, rain drizzled from her chin to her forehead, and she silently swore that when she was back on her feet again, she'd kill him. He hauled her up the steps and into the house.

            "There you go," he said, depositing her unceremoniously on the floor, once they were back in the kitchen.

            "Of all the mean, despicable, low and dirty tricks -," she sputtered, planting her fists firmly on her hips.

            "And what were you planning to do – ford the stream?"

            "There hasn't been a drop of water in the creek for over a month!"

            "Why were you walking?"

            She didn't bother with an answer. Still fuming, she raked her fingers through her wet hair and hoped to hold on to the few shreds of her dignity that were still intact.

            He glanced to the floor, where the duffel bag and suitcase sat in a pool of water on the cracked linoleum. As if noticing the Army bags for the first time, he bent on one knee and fingered the tags still tied to the duffel's strap. "Private Milliardo Dorlian?" He stared up at her, his brows drawn into a bushy line. "Your brother is back?"

            She nodded. The less she said the better.

            "I thought he left after the fire."

            "He did."

            "So when did he show up?"

            "Six months ago. You've been gone a long time, Trowa. Milliardo's hitch was over last year. He's going back to school in a few weeks."

            Frowning, he studied the name tags then straightened. "So where is he?"

            She shrugged. "Around. Probably in town tonight. It is Friday."

            "Still raising hell?" Trowa asked.

            Bristling, she snapped. "That was a long time ago, Trowa. Milliardo's changed."

            "Has he?" Trowa asked sarcastically.

            Relena couldn't begin to explain about the mixed emotions she felt for her brother. He'd stood by her after the fire, when Trowa had left her aching and raw – lost and alone. It was true Milliardo had joined the army soon after the blaze, but he was back, and for the most part, he'd straightened out. The hellion he'd been after high school had all but disappeared. "Milliardo's been through six years in the Army. He's grown up. If you haven't noticed, a lot of things have changed around here!"

            "That they have," he said quietly, his gaze lingering in hers. "That they have."

            Relena's heart started thudding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it.

            "Look, why don't you go upstairs, put those -," he motioned to the bags. "-away. You said something about a hot bath earlier.

            Relena was chilled to the bone. A soak in a tub of warn water sounded like heaven. But she wasn't convinced that staying in the same house with Trowa Barton would be smart or safe. "And what about you?" she asked.

            "As I said, I'll move into the room down the hall."

            "I don't think that would be such a good idea."

            "This is my house," he reminded her. "And it's only for a week. Two at the most."

            Knowing she was making a mistake, Relena relented. Wet, dirty and just plain tired of arguing with him, she decided one night wouldn't hurt. In the morning, after the shock of seeing him again had worn off, she'd decide if she should move out.

            "Just for tonight," she said, hoisting her bags.

            "I can take those," he offered.

            "No thanks." She hauled her bags up the stairs, and unpacked her nightgown and robe. Feeling like a stranger in her own home, she hurried to the bathroom, locked the door and stripped off her wet clothes.

            Steam rise from the tub as she glanced in the mirror and groaned. Her hair was lank and wet, her face smudged with mud, her skin flushed from the argument. "This is crazy," she told herself as she stepped into the hot ware. "Absolutely crazy!"

            Trowa poured himself a stiff shot. His second. Nervous as a cat, he paced the study, listening as the ceiling creaked. He knew the minute she dashed down the hall to the bathroom, heard the soft metal click of the lock, felt the house shudder a little as she turned on the shower and the old pipes creaked.

            Closing his eyes, he imagined Relena stepping into the bath and wondered if her body had aged, or if it was still as supple and firm as the last time he'd been with her. Groaning, her image as vivid as if their lovemaking had been only yesterday, he gritted his teeth. "Forget it, Barton," he warned himself, tossing back his drink.

            Swearing loudly, he dropped into the chair behind the desk and started working on the invoices. But he couldn't concentrate. Aware of the water running, he listened until the old pipes clanged and the hum of the pump stopped suddenly. Gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles showed white, he leaned back and listened as she unlocked the bathroom door and padded softly to her room – his parents' old room.

            Why the devil was she living in the house? He wanted to believe that she'd moved in after Mark died, to manage the old house and keep it running. But he knew better. She had admitted as much.

            Had she been Mark's mistress? He doubted it. Yet uncertainty gnawed at him. She hadn't denied having an affair with the old man, but Trowa wouldn't let himself believe her capable of making love to a man more than twice her age. He couldn't. Though, all things considered, it was none of his damned business. He'd given up any claims on her when he'd accepted the cold truth that she'd betrayed him.

            He reached for the neck of the Scotch bottle again, intent on pouring himself another, then twisted on the cap. After shoving the bottle back in the drawer where he'd found it, he stood at the window and stared out at the night.

            Lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the ridge near the silver mine, the ridge where he'd first discovered how exquisite making love to Relena could be. There had been women before and since, of course, but none of those brief experiences had been as soul-jarring as the one suspended moment in time when he'd made love to Relena Dorlian.

            Angry with the turn of his thoughts, he yanked down the blind to blot out the picture, but it snapped back up again and the ridge was there again, knifing upward against the sky. He'd been a fool to return to this damned place; he'd known it was and still he'd come back.

            Relena was just upstairs, lying in his parents' wedding bed of all placed.

            How, he wondered, fire burning hot in his loins, would he get through the night?

Now there's a cliffhanger to be proud of. Not. Please review anyways.


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